Note: I agree! Poetry is to be recited.

In a cobbled square,
Pulled in by a masterful snare,
Younglings gather and frolic,
Etch the square with ink,
And wipe it in sync.

Street signs repeat,
Amidst a thick fog,
Memories remain murky,
Outlines rapidly decline.

Names reach,
The far stretch,
Reaching countless ears,
"Don't go out giving names, my dear
For this is a town that forgets."

A specific day,
Forgetful as they say,
Passing the curve as it swerves,
Right turn for every red light.

Wheels spin as wills churn,
Yearn for a complete turn,
On such night,
Fright faces its fight,
Falls out of sight.

Sharp corners of streets,
Melt like butter,
Buildings into wax as it retreats,
In this intense heat.

Horizons appear,
Self disappears,
Yearning incomplete,
So what,
Chances replete.

Young Buddhas descend,
From far part of heaven,
For us to ascend.
"This is the way, son."

Day starts clean,
Everything back to how it seems,
Outlines remain,
Footsteps erased,
In the mind as it traces.

No hurry,
No need to flurry,
It shall repeat,
After another retreat.